


Shadows and Mist

by Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Series: They Who Sleep in Elysium [2]
Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Highlander
Genre: Alternate Universe, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under the guise of a new life, there are still traces to be found of the lifetime before. It only takes a chance encounter to wake them once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows and Mist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hyarrowen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyarrowen/gifts).



> A winter holiday gift for [hyarrowen](http://hyarrowen.dreamwidth.org/).

Swearing to uphold the treaty signed at Troyes is both the easiest thing Haerviu's had to do as Jehan, Montjoye King of Arms, and the most difficult. To do so means serving both the king he thinks of in much the same manner he might a child, and the king whose fire he wishes he could hold for a lifetime of lifetimes. It also means a careful distance between himself and the latter, for he cannot, in all honor, both uphold the treaty and come to Henry's bed.

So he kneels and he takes the oath that all nobles and officers of state in France shall be required to take, and he holds onto the memories of what had been since soon after Agincourt to keep him through the rest of Henry's reign and life, however long that might be.

A hot August day fading into a cooler night brings the end of the fire only two years later, and he retreats a little from the life he lives now, Jehan becoming more shadow than substance, waiting only for one more bond to be severed. Four days short of St. Crispin's that same year, that bond fails, and few notice that he slips away in the night, leaving Jehan - that gentle herald, the Montjoye King of Arms, beloved of an enemy king - behind as others might leave a tunic worn to rags.

* * *

Haerviu's once more the warrior, the soldier, traveling south and east. Weary eyes and comfortably worn armor, sword hanging at his side and horse easy under him when he meets with another traveler, one he's not expecting.

Nor, it seems, is Henry expecting to see him, eyes widening after a moment when he finds some hint of Jehan still hidden beneath Bertram, and recognizes his face. Uncertain what to say, perhaps, but only for a moment.

"Gentle herald." Henry's voice is full of welcome and familiarity, waking a warmth that's been banked these long months since that last day of August past. "I had not thought to see you without your lilies."

The tabard of service that had been one of the trappings of Jehan, as much a part of him as any other element of that life. "Jehan's service was to Charles of France, and Harry England. His life is spent with neither master left to serve." He lifts his lips at the momentary flash of confusion across Henry's face. "Bertram serves no king, only what man has coin enough to hire him."

"And of you?" Henry nudges his horse into motion as he does the same, the two walking easily along a road that is at least here in decent repair.

Haerviu shrugs. "I was Jehan, and what I felt then is not faded with his death. I am now Bertram, and he has no loyalties as yet." Nor, perhaps, will have any, save to this bright prince hidden in the guise of a rough soldier. "What of you, who should be moldering, with all glory laid by?"

Henry is quiet a moment, and watches the road between his horse's ears while he thinks of what to say. "I know not why I am still as I am, though my lord Salisbury says it is like nothing he knows."

Matthew of Salisbury, of whom he'd had some passing acknowledgement when he'd been Jehan Montjoye, and has heard tell is a good man, even outside the confines of a mortal life. And who is not old enough to have seen the power the old gods held before most faded in the face of the religion that had taken over Rome and spread along its roads from its beginnings in the Levant.

"There are beings older than many of our kind, though there are few of them left who have the power to work the miracles expected of them." He is uncertain which of those he'd prayed to in his youth might still be about, or those of other peoples of Europe and the rest of the world. Perhaps those of far India, where they still worship their pantheon, or in places where the siren call of a single god for all things hasn't taken deep root.

"None of which have claimed their work." Henry sighs, an irritable frown on his face. "If this is not a miracle of some saint or other servant of God - and I can think of others who might have been better suited to such a thing than I, though I will not wish it undone - than I would wish to know whose work it is."

Silent a moment as he contemplates his words, Haerviu watches the road. "Be careful to ask that, for there are those who are chary with such gifts, and like to exact some price for them, even when they are bestowed unasked for." He's seen the effects of those prices before, and had even been the instrument of one such, when a sacrifice had been found wanting. He still shies away from some of those memories, particularly when the student he'd had afterward is not present to remind him that his actions were not to his shame.

He can feel Henry's eyes on him, though what Henry looks for, he is uncertain. "Perhaps it is the lack of knowledge that is the price for my life, then." Henry lets out a sharp bark of laughter. "If it is so, than I shall have to live without knowing why this was done."

"And if it is not the price, than eventually whoever has done this will come to claim the price they desire from you." Haerviu lets one corner of his mouth quirk up in a small smile. "Either way, I would think it best not to ask too closely about the affairs of the gods, dread king."

Henry laughs, easy and loud and cheerful. "I am no king here, only Henry. A soldier, and perhaps someday a leader of men, but no king. Perhaps not such again." There is a wistfulness there, but Haerviu knows it will be some time - if ever - before Henry can let go of his first life.

"Then I shall call you captain, for Bertram has no king or prince or duke to whom he might be loyal." Haerviu looks over to meet Henry's gaze. "And I would call it an honor that I might follow you in arms, as I could not before."

"What, then, shall I call you, when we are not a captain and his soldier?" Henry's smile is open and easy, the carefree youth he never could have been, despite the rumours.

"I was given the name Haerviu in my youth, when I thought myself as mortal as you had once been." It costs him nothing to share his name, and it makes Henry's smile widen, and nudge his horse closer, so they ride with knees all but touching.

**Author's Note:**

> The muses flat refuse to give me a story that might be set between Agincourt and the signing of the Treaty of Troyes for this pairing. Of course, with Montjoy being more often Haerviu, an Immortal, and Henry being the well-loved favorite of a Celtic goddess, they do have the time to expand that relationship over the centuries.


End file.
